Breadfruit … Memories of Travel and Food

Sometimes we have opportunities to return to the past. Some journeys are real, others consist of memories. Last week I had the latter as I am starting to break out of my personal Hotel California (for the 1st reference to this evocative hit by the Eagles, see 3/24/2020 post). An opportunity to go on an errand, perhaps a fool’s errand, but that’s another story, arose. A friend, also in desperate need of a change of scenery, came along. We planned a shopping marathon with stops at varied and sundry stores on the way home, as is my habit on driving trips. Unfortunately, while I used map quest, not GPS; we missed several of our targeted stops!

The first on the list was Broward Fish and Meat Market, an international food market I’d seen advertised on day-time tv. I hoped it would be a replacement for my beloved Penn Dutch market that closed before the pandemic changed all of our lives (see 9/21/2019 post).

Well, this market is loaded to the gills with all sorts of Caribbean, not international products: canned goods, more hot sauces than anyone with no taste buds could eat, and more. The fish and meats looked fine, but not much out of the ordinary.  The produce loss leader for the day, however, was another story – breadfruit. A nice sized one came home with me.

Many years ago I bought breadfruit from a street vendor somewhere in this same direction. Both Constant Companion and Daughter liked. Mom, who lived with us then, also enjoyed. Fresh breadfruit does not seem to be grown in our neighborhood, too bad.

This beautiful green orb was roasted for dinner the next evening. Cut out the stem end and cut a cross in the other end and roast at 350 for an hour. When it’s done, cut in half, remove the center part, peel, slice, and eat. Delicious!

The leftovers were fried to a crisp, somewhat crunchy, delicious brown for dinner the next night.

I learned to cook and eat breadfruit during my Peace Corps days in Jamaica. I loved seeing the large, dark green, spreading leaves of the trees in yards around town. Even better was freshly baked and fried slices of this delicacy, unknown in the northern climes where I grew up.

The breadfruit brought another trip down memory lane. A few years ago I was participated in a museum conference in Barbados hosted by the National Museum of Barbados. Most of us participated in a post-conference tour to see more of the island and learn its history after our business was done. In Bridgetown and Speightstown, I broke away from the group for a few moments to peruse their markets and see what deliciousness was in season. Note the breadfruit in the back of the photo to the left.

We also enjoyed street food along the way! Knowing me, I had to take photos of the cooking and the food, fried dough and fish balls.

A visit to Colleton House, the mid-seventeenth century home colonialist Sir John Colleton overlooking the Caribbean, was part of the tour.

Curiously, one of the more recent owners of the property filled the house with a collection of art from the Pacific and Africa, below is mostly Papua New Guinea.

There we enjoyed a lunch of delicious local dishes. Breadfruit was front and center, this time in a very non-traditional preparation. Breadfruit lasagna was the main course. I found my way to the kitchen to see how it was prepared, boiled this time.

Travel, food, and memories and the people you meet along the way. What could be better?

I love the patterns of the breadfruit skin –

2 comments

  1. Still thinking about visiting that market. And your mention of breadfruit brings up visions at least in my mind) of the larger jackfruit, too. 🙂

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s